


put it on so you can take if off me

by funnefatale



Category: Marvel, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Normal Life, Explicit Language, F/M, Romantic Comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:15:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26656492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/funnefatale/pseuds/funnefatale
Summary: He grins, big and goofy. "You think I'm pretty?"Well,yeah. Considering she’s trying to get him back to her place, she'd think that was obvious..Brunnhilde tries to have a one night stand.
Relationships: Brunnhilde | Valkyrie & Carol Danvers, Brunnhilde | Valkyrie/Thor (Marvel)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 58





	put it on so you can take if off me

**Author's Note:**

> written for thorkyrie week day 6: gold.
> 
> i've been reading way too many rom-coms. sorry not sorry.

It has been one year, three months, and fifteen days since Brunnhilde’s ex left her. 

Not that she’s keeping track of exactly how long she’s been spiraling into a pathetic depression. No, because that would mean she’s still hung up on someone who doesn’t love her back. Someone who doesn’t want her back, someone who again never will want her back. Someone who is very happily, not to mention very _publicly_ , in love with someone new. 

It’s, quite frankly, not something she can think about for very long. So she doesn’t. 

Instead she focuses on something much more important:

She needs to get laid.

She is _going_ to get laid.

“You are going to be home within an hour,” Carol says, flipping the page on her book, not even bothering to look up. “You’ll hate her.” 

Brunnhilde glares. “It’s a one night stand. I don’t have to _like_ her.” 

“Please,” Carol sighs and closes her book. “You’re not a casual hookup person, Brunnhilde,” she says as if it’s obvious. “You’re a long term relationship person. Just try regular dating again.” 

Brunnhilde stares at her.

A beat passes.

Then another.

“No,” she says, decidedly shaking the thought off before she can fully process it. 

Carol’s wrong. Just because she’s been Brunnhilde’s best friend for the better part of a decade doesn’t mean she _knows_ her or something. A relationship? Psh. No, she needs to do something stupid. She needs to make a sloppy mistake. 

She needs to get laid. 

That’s all. 

“Be useful,” Brunnhilde says and holds up two shirts. 

Carol rolls her eyes and points to the blue tank top before going back to her book. 

She puts on the grey one just to spite her and goes to her closet to dig out her favorite leather jacket – the bomber cropped at just the right angle to make her ass stand out. 

“You’re putting in a lot of effort to see someone for only twenty minutes,” Carol calls. 

And she sounds like a broken record. A very annoying, sister-like broken record. 

Why is she even over if she’s not going to contribute anything helpful? 

“Twenty bucks,” Brunnhilde snaps, coming out of the closet, fully dressed and ready to have this one night stand. “Twenty bucks says I’ll do it.” 

Carol flips another page. “No, you’ll just lie.” 

She narrows her eyes before she grabs her keys and tosses them at her. They land on the pages of her book with a soft jingle. “You already have the spare,” she says before Carol has the chance to argue. “So there’s no way for me to get home without you knowing.” 

Carol studies her for a moment before she says, “Fifty. Make it worth it.” 

“Fine,” she snaps.

“Fine,” Carol says calmly and goes back to her book. “Easiest fifty bucks I ever made.”

Brunnhilde rolls her eyes. “Just make sure you lock up when you leave.” 

  
  


At tinder girl’s suggestion, they meet at some boujee bar that she’s never heard of but agrees to because it’s halfway between their places. 

Brunnhilde shows up five minutes early and finds the place is mostly empty except for a few obnoxiously rich looking assholes playing pool. Brunnhilde tries to ignore the way one of them clearly checks her out when she walks in and takes a seat at the bar, as far away from the few booths next to the pool tables, as possible. She orders a whiskey neat, and texts tinder girl to let her know she’s there. 

Then waits.

And waits.

It’s just when she’s about to give up, a whole drink and almost fifteen minutes later, that her date shows up, almost too busy chatting away on her phone to even notice she’s already there. It’s rude. And annoying. 

Though, she realizes when tinder girl finally walks over and hugs her, not nearly as annoying as how she has her hair in the exact same over-the-shoulder Dutch braid Brunnhilde’s ex always wears. And right then and there, Brunnhilde decides she hates her. So much so that, for a brief moment, she seriously considers just getting up and leaving. 

Except that would mean admitting Carol was right. 

Fuck. 

She takes a deep breath and waves the bartender down for another whiskey. More alcohol has to be the answer. 

  
  


She’ll never actually know if it was because things blow up halfway through their first round. 

Okay, so maybe it’s on her for bringing up politics, but it’s not her fault one of the bar TVs had on the news instead of whatever boring baseball game is on. And what was she supposed to do, _not_ comment on the refugee crisis? How can she ignore that? She may be an asshole, but she isn’t heartless. 

Apparently tinder girl is. 

One thing leads to another, which leads to – actually, that’s it. That’s all it takes for little Miss Amerikka to show Brunnhilde exactly who she is. Because apparently being queer excuses her from ever possibly being racist. 

Tinder girl practically slams her drink on the counter and leaves in a huff, less than ten minutes after showing up fifteen minutes late. It’s only after the bar door loudly bangs shut, shaking the windows in the process, that Brunnhilde realizes she didn’t even bother to pay for her extremely overpriced drink. 

So apparently she’s paying for that _on top_ of the fifty bucks she now owes Carol. 

Tonight, she thinks shooting down the rest of her whiskey, definitely _isn’t_ her night. 

  
  


Another drink slides in front of her. 

"On the house," the bartender says sympathetically. 

She stares at him for a moment, trying to figure out if she's more grateful or embarrassed. In the end, she takes the drink. She should thank him. 

She doesn’t. 

“You saw that, huh?" she says instead.

He chuckles, deep and throaty, and looks at her in this smug way that definitely doesn't do something to her. He's attractive, she realizes suddenly. You know, if you're into that whole tall, blonde, and gorgeous thing. 

"Pretty sure the whole bar heard that."

She refuses to be embarrassed by that. She wasn't the one in the wrong. 

“The whole bar?” she asks, glancing around. "Is that what we're calling five people?" 

He laughs, loud and thunderous, and she swears the burning she feels is just the alcohol. 

  
  


Okay, fine, he’s hot. 

And not just in that perfect supermodel _are you even human_ kind of way. Because, yeah, sure, he definitely has that going for him and it’s kind of weird that he’s here serving her drinks instead of modeling for some underwear billboard, but that’s not all. 

Because he’s also kind of awkward in that nervous babbling way that he somehow makes charming. And he smiles in this way that kind of makes the whole room feel warm and bright. She’s pretty sure he could bleed sunshine if he tried. 

“It’s my name,” he insists, taking a sip of his own drink because the place is empty enough for him to actually do that. 

She rolls her eyes. “Bullshit,” she says. “ _Thor_ is not a real name.” 

“Alright then,” he says, not at all offended. Probably because she’s right and he knows it. Except then he does this thing where he leans rests his forearms on the table and leans forward, closing the space between them, as if he has a secret only for her ears. “Whatever you say, _Brunnhilde_.” 

She swears she’d have something to say if she wasn’t so distracted by how incredibly hot her name sounds coming from his lips. 

He smirks when he takes a step back and pretty obviously checks her out. His eyes trail from her lips to her throat before they settle on her arms, the muscles particularly defined from her boxing session that morning. 

When he finally looks up at her eyes again, he says, “You’re just a real Valkyrie, aren’t you?” 

He laughs again and she thinks _fuck_.

  
  


She doesn’t know what happens but one minute there are at least a few people around. Then she blinks and suddenly it’s just them. 

Probably, she thinks, because no one can afford more than one drink in this overpriced joint. But also probably because it’s getting late. Too late to be out on a Wednesday night. And definitely too late for her to still be at the bar where her terrible tinder date walked out on her. 

“I’m going to close up early,” Thor says as he finishes his drink. “But if you don’t have any other plans, Valkyrie, I know this place around the corner. If you want to get another drink.” 

It’s genuinely a request, she can tell, not an assumption she’ll do it. Because even though she can tell he’s trying to play it cool, he walks backwards into the back bar, nearly knocking over quite a few bottles of expensive vodka. Subtlety really isn’t his forte. 

Briefly she wonders how exactly someone who looks like him can get nervous about asking someone out to a drink, but then decides that she doesn’t particularly care. It’s… cute. 

“You should know: I have this rule,” she says instead, not even trying to soften the bluntness. “About not going home with men I don’t really know. Safety and all.” 

She almost expects him to try to brush it off. To joke about how they’re hardly strangers after spending the last couple of hours talking. After having her tab cleared. For him to say that she looks like she can take care of herself. To point out how she came here exactly so she could go home with that horrible woman. Because that’s usually what men say. Or at least they did, back when this rule used to be an applicable part of her life. 

Except he doesn’t say any of that. 

He deflates a little so she knows he’s disappointed, but he tries to cover it up as quickly as he can. “That’s a fair rule,” he says instead and she knows he means it. Because even though it’s probably too early to really judge, something about him just seems too honest to lie. At least about something like this. 

Fuck. 

“I live four blocks over,” she says instead. “If you’re still interested in… _drinks_.” 

It’s kind of embarrassing how vulnerable she suddenly feels even though she’s almost certain he will agree. Putting herself out there, asking someone for what she wants, isn’t exactly something she’s used to anymore. She kind of really hates it, she realizes. No wonder she’s stayed single for over a year.

But then his face lights up and she suddenly feels a little warm, so _fine_ , maybe this whole asking might be worth it. 

No risk, no reward. 

“Give me fifteen minutes to lock up,” he says. She nods and hands him her empty glass. 

Maybe, she thinks, it is her lucky night after all.

  
  


"So what's your deal?" she asks on their way back to her place. She steps in front of him, walking backwards so she can stare him down when she asks. He raises a brow, clearly confused. She gestures at all of him. "Why is a pretty boy like you working in a bar instead of, I don't know, modeling for billboards or doing commercials or something equally obnoxious?" 

Everything about him, she doesn't say, screams rich boy. 

He grins, big and goofy. "You think I'm pretty?" 

Well, _yeah_. Considering she’s trying to get him back to her place, she'd think that was obvious. 

Not that she's about to say that out loud.

She spins on her heel so she can see where she's walking, not because she's worried he'll see her embarrassment. "Answer the question, god-boy." 

"God- _man_ ," Thor corrects. Then doesn't say anything else and she thinks he's going to change the subject again. But after a beat, he sighs. "My dad wanted me to take over the family business. I didn't. So I left." He shrugs. "He cut me off. I needed a job." 

It's a bit cliché, the whole _too good for daddy's money_ thing, but she supposes there are worse reasons someone like him would be bartending on a Wednesday night. 

She's certainly not in a place to judge.

"What about you?" he asks. She can’t tell if he’s asking out of general curiosity or to return the invasive favor. "You don't exactly strike me as the type to date people you hate." 

"I'd hardly call that a date," she grumbles. 

He snorts, clearly agreeing, but doesn't say anything else, patiently waiting for an answer.

It's on the tip of her tongue to tell him the same thing she told Carol – you don't have to like the person you're having a one night stand – but she stops herself. She may be blunt, almost to a fault sometimes, but even she knows better than to say something like that to the person she is _currently_ trying to have a one night stand with. It might give him the wrong idea and really ruin her night. 

Besides, she doesn't _hate_ him. 

He's… nice. 

"I'm a boxer. I own a gym. With my ex. Whose new girlfriend has decided to take up boxing." 

A beat passes. Then another. 

“Ouch,” he says at last and she almost wants to laugh. 

She shrugs instead and avoids looking at him when she explains, “It’s nothing I can’t handle. But… we were together for a few years before she left. And, well, I’m not sure I know how to do this anymore.” 

He hesitates before he asks, “Date?”

“Yeah,” she says on instinct, but the word feels wrong coming out. And it’s not that she feels like she owes him an explanation because she absolutely does not. But something in her wants to tell him the truth, if for no other reason than to finally admit it to herself. “To have fun,” she says and instantly feels pathetic. Definitely the wrong move.

“Well, lucky for you, Valkyrie,” he says, his arm brushing against hers as they walk, the warmth just radiating off him, “I have _tons_ of experience with fun. It’s probably a specialty of mine, really. In fact, they call me Mr. Fun.” 

“Mr. Fun?” 

He wrinkles his nose in this way that should not be attractive but is somehow incredibly hot on him. “Yeah, regretted it the moment I said it.”

She laughs.

  
  


When they finally make it back to her apartment building, he looks visibly surprised and almost… _worried_? For a moment, she thinks it’s probably because he’s used to fancier places with doormen or something. Which probably isn’t a fair thought. It’s not like she knows his living situation now that he’s rejected daddy’s money. 

“Sorry,” he says when he catches her staring at him. “My ex lives in this building. Or at least used to.” 

Yeah, that would definitely explain his reaction. 

“Ex, huh? Let me guess, _Thor_ ,” she says playfully, trying to distract him. “Was it Athena?”

“Hercules, actually.” 

She stares at him like he’s grown a second head. “Are you kidding?” 

If he’s embarrassed, he doesn’t show it. He just shrugs before giving her this ridiculously handsome grin. “What can I say, _Brunnhilde_? I guess I have a type.”

Well, she can’t exactly argue there. 

  
  


Fuck, she thinks the moment her hands reach in her jacket pockets. 

“Fuck,” she says when she pulls them inside out, revealing nothing more than a few crumbled up bills and a hair tie. And even though she already knows, she pats herself off in the hopes that maybe, just maybe, she’s wrong. She isn’t. “ _Fuck_.” 

Thor raises a brow. “Something wrong?” 

“Carol has my keys,” she explains. He stares at her for a moment and she can tell he’s trying to figure out if the name is supposed to sound familiar to him. “My neighbor. I gave her my keys. We made a bet about my date.” 

He nods along as if this is a completely normal thing to say then glances at his watch. “And I’m assuming Carol is asleep.”

“Absolutely.” 

Brunnhilde could call her. Probably should call her, if she’s being honest. Carol’s a light enough sleeper that she would wake up if her phone went off. But it would mean losing their bet and she’s definitely not going to do that. Especially not now when she’s so close. 

An idea comes to her. 

She glances at Thor and decides, despite sobering up on the walk home, she’ll blame the alcohol if it doesn’t work. “Ready to use those muscles, god-man?”

“Why? What do you have in mind?”

“Fire escape. I’m on the ninth floor.”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Sounds fun.” 

  
  


“This was a horrible idea,” she whisper-hisses at him. 

He narrows his eyes and shoots back in an equally hushed tone, “It was _your_ idea.” 

The old metal loudly rattles under their combined (okay, let’s be real, mostly Thor’s) weight. She’s pretty sure they’re going to get arrested. For breaking into her own apartment. And then she’s going to have to call Carol _and_ lose the bet anyways. 

Why the fuck didn’t she just climb up by herself and _then_ let him in? 

Oh right. Because that would have required her to have put literally any thought into this plan other than _get hot man into apartment_. 

“What floor are we on?” she whisper-asks. 

“I thought you were keeping track!” he whisper-cries back. “It’s _your_ building.” He glances over the edge, as if he’ll be able to count the floors.

The metal creeks when he shifts to check and she instinctively grabs his shirt, pulling him back to her with all her might. He almost crashes into her, and she’s met with a very nice and very up close view of his chest. One of his arm snakes around her waist, whether to steady them or close the distance between them, she isn’t sure. But when she glances up and sees him grinning down at her, she decides she doesn’t really care. 

“You really are a Valkyrie,” he teases, his voice still low as his other hand brushes down her arm. She flexes the muscles, showing off as best as she can through the jacket. 

She smirks, gripping his shirt a little tighter. “You have no idea, god-man.” 

For a second, she thinks she’s going to kiss him, everything else be damned. 

Except then the fire escapes rattles again and she thinks they both might die if she does. And she refuses to die before getting laid. Not when she’s so close. So she lets his shirt go and takes as much of a step back as she can, trying to distribute some of the weight between them.

“Come on,” she gestures with her head, “I think I’m one more floor up.”

She leads the way and, as she climbs up, tries not to think about how he now has the perfect view of her ass. Because she’s sure if she catches him checking her out now, she’ll definitely have to kiss him, death be damned. 

  
  


“Should I lock this or are you expecting to climb back up in the morning?” Thor asks playfully after he crawls through the window behind her. 

“Very funny.”

“I thought so.”

She rolls her eyes, but smiles and tosses her jacket on a chair before going into the kitchen to get a couple of beers. Which, she remembers when she opens the fridge, she doesn’t have because Carol drank the last couple when she came over to watch the game last night. 

Of course. 

“Bad news: I’m out of beer,” she says she comes back into the living room and finds Thor looking at a photo of her in front of her gym the day it opened. “And whiskey and vodka and pretty much all alcohol.”

He raises a brow when he looks at her. “So when you invited me over for drinks…?”

She holds up two bottles. “Water. They’re cold and everything,” she explains, plopping down on the couch. 

“My favorite,” he grins, following her. 

He drinks his entire bottle in one go. She can’t blame him because, to be frank, water is probably what they need right now. What with the alcohol at the bar, the walk over, and the life-threatening climb up the fire escape.

She snorts at the thought of the latter. “I can’t believe we did that.” 

He laughs, loud and thunderous. “You know, Valkyrie,” he says, turning his entire body to look at her, “For someone who thinks they don’t remember how, you sure know how to have fun.”

Maybe it’s because he says what she’s been so desperate to hear for the last year, that he can see her and think that she, _Brunnhilde_ , and _fun_ can coexist. Maybe it’s because, despite wanting nothing more than to make a mistake tonight, she feels like she’s finally made a good decision for the first time in a very long time. 

Maybe it’s because he’s really hot and this was the whole fucking point in bringing home. 

Whatever the reason is, she doesn’t care – she just leans over, closing the distance between them, and kisses him. 

  
  


“I was waiting for you to do that all night,” he mummers, his forehead pressed against hers, her nose squished against his.

“Yeah?” she teases. “Was it worth the wait?”

He presses his lips, not even trying to hide his grin. “If I say no, will you do it again?”

She laughs and kisses him again.

  
  


There's a certain point – definitely after she ends up on top of him, her knees straddling his waist as she leans down on him; maybe around the time her hands get tangled his hair, ruining his perfect little man bun, and his hands find her ass –she thinks it's time to commit. 

"Bedroom," she mumbles into his mouth, willing herself to pull away for literally two minutes. "Meet you there." She kisses him once, twice more, before she finally untangles her hands from his hair, crawls off of him, and goes to the restroom.

By the time she pees, freshens up, and makes her way to the bedroom, he's already there. Except he's sitting on her bed, wallet in hand, looking way too depressed for a guy who’s about to get laid. 

He glances at her and gives her the smallest, most pathetic smile she thinks she’s ever seen. "I don't suppose you have a condom, do you?"

She stares at him for a beat.

Then another.

And another.

"Are you _fucking_ kidding me?" 

  
  


Between her neither her nor her ex having dicks and the last year she spent in self-pity, she can't remember the last time she so much as considered a situation where she would need, much less _get_ , a condom before tonight – the possibility wasn't even on her radar five hours ago. Hell, she can’t even remember the last time she so much as _held_ one. So, even if by some miracle she had one in this apartment (which she most definitely does not), it would be long expired. 

"You _seriously_ don't have one?" she asks, more out of shock than disbelief.

"I was at _work_ ," he points out, clearly annoyed with himself. "It wasn't exactly on my list of things to make sure I had before I left the apartment." 

She sits down beside and sighs. "Of course." 

There _really_ goes any chance she had of getting laid tonight. Figures. It’s her after all – she doesn’t get to have nice things. Everything always falls apart somehow. 

He pauses for a whole minute before he says, "Well, you know…" he starts. She glares because if he's even _thinking_ about suggesting what she thinks he is, she will kick him out without any qualms. His eyes widen and he shakes his head. "No, not that," he assures her. "I promise I'm not _that_ much of an idiot." 

"Then what?" she asks.

He smirks, but before she can try to figure out what exactly he could be so smug about without a condom, he leans forward and kisses her lips. Her jaw, her throat.

"You," he purrs, his fingers dancing against the edge of her shirt, right above the button on her jeans, "have a very _heteronormative_ idea of sex."

That, she wants to say, is definitely the first time she's ever been accused of being heteronormative. It’s the first time anyone has ever placed her and heteronormative in the same sentence. She should be offended. 

She _is_ offended. 

She should say something. 

Except his hands finally slip under her shirt, his thumb tracing the outlines of her muscles, and his lips are on her collar bones and – _fuck –_ okay, fine, maybe she'll let it slide just this once. 

  
  


Brunnhilde has exactly one nice, lacy blue bra that she drunkenly bought once four months ago. It sat in the box for almost two months before she finally shoved it to the back of her bra drawer where it sat, tag still on, for two more months. 

Until tonight when she finally decided to break it out. 

Only to realize she'd ordered the wrong size. 

She'd tried to make it work, really she had. But nothing about the way it fit, the way it looked on her, felt right. So she'd tossed it to the back of her closet, tag still on, and put on her favorite sports bra instead. What did it matter what bra she wore if the whole point was to have it taken off?

It's a decision she doesn't regret, especially when she pulls off her shirt and Thor's breath hitches. 

"Valkyrie," he breathes, his eyes on her, "You're beautiful." 

He genuinely means it. 

Something inside of her stirs. It isn't the first time he's made her feel something, but somehow it's… _different_. There's something else there this time, something she maybe isn't quite ready to acknowledge. At least not yet. 

But when she pulls him down to her and kisses him again – slower and sweeter than any of their other kisses – she realizes it may not matter if she's ready to acknowledge it because she definitely _feels_ it. 

  
  


She doesn't get the chance to fully appreciate the way he looks without his shirt on, because the moment he takes it off, he moves down her body. She lays back as he goes from her throat to her chest. The gold chain hanging from his neck, still warm from his body heat, creates a trail he follows, leading his lips down her stomach.

He pauses right above the buttons on her jeans, his hand pressed against her inner thigh.

Brunnhilde inhales.

He smirks.

"Thor," she hisses.

"Yes, Valkyrie?" he answers. 

"If you don't take these pants off me right now, I swear…" 

He gives her this look and she can tell it's taking everything in him to not laugh. "My lady," he says playfully. "Your wish," he unbuttons the jeans, "is my," he slides the zipper down, moving as slowly as possible, "comm-"

" _Thor_."

This time he does laugh, deep and heavy, but finally strips off her pants and, thankfully, her underwear with it. 

  
  


When he kisses her, it feels almost as if he’s sending sparks of lightning straight into her. 

He hums when she gasps and she thinks she can actually _feel_ him grinning inside of her. Her fingers reach into his hair, pulling apart what little of his bun that even remained, dragging him closer to her. 

When he slides his fingers into her, her hips buck up, pushing her so close to him that she probably wouldn't know where she began and he ended. His other hand presses on her thigh, giving him enough leverage to follow the rhythm she sets.

Her fingers pull at his hair as her chest arches and her thighs shake, and he presses his tongue even more into her and she –

 _Fuck_.

Brunnhilde falls back into the bed, her breath heavy, her chest pounding, and her head light. Thor climbs up from between her legs, and she guides him back to her mouth, kissing the remnants of her off his lips. 

She tastes good on him, she thinks as she finally releases her hold on his hair. 

"Thanks," she says even though she absolutely doesn't have to. "For, you know, not being so _heteronormative_."

He chuckles, his eyes still dark. "Trust me, Valkyrie, the pleasure was all mine."

"Well,” she corrects, “Maybe not _all_."

Speaking of pleasure. 

She wraps her legs around his waist and, in a move that's quite frankly impressive given his size, she rolls them over. He lets out a startled breath when his back hits the mattress. She smirks, her hands pressing down on the chain on his chest, holding him in place as she finally gets her moment to admire his shirtless torso.

His hands grip her waist so that when she's ready, she has enough stability to pull her sports bra over her head. 

"You didn't think," she says as she leans down, her bare chest pressed against his, her lips just barely but not quite grazing against his, "That I'd let you have all the fun, did you?" 

He gasps and she kisses him before he has the chance to respond. 

  
  


The next morning, she wakes up to the smell of burnt coffee. 

It isn’t important, she thinks, burying her face back into her pillow. If the apartment goes up in flames and she dies, she’ll die in bed. Besides, at least she’ll have had a good last night. Worse ways to go out than after having sex with a hot guy. 

Hot guy.

Thor.

Fuck.

She grumbles when she reaches across the bed, already knowing he won’t be there. He isn’t, but the sheets are still warm. So is the gold chain she finds tucked away under the pillow, the same chain that she could have sworn he still had when they fell asleep. Which means it’s absolutely him in her kitchen possibly starting a fire.

With a huff, she forces herself up. 

“Don’t tell me you're a morning person,” she grumbles as she comes out of the bedroom, wearing the first oversized shirt she found in her drawer. She surveys the kitchen and once she’s sure nothing is actually on fire, relaxes against the fridge. “I thought bartenders slept all day.”

He grins a little sheepishly and she notices that he’s still only half dressed. “I’m not and we do. It’s, uh, noon.” 

Her eyes widen and she grabs his arm to check his watch. Ten after twelve. 

“Shit,” she sighs. “I have to be at the gym in a few hours.” 

“Me too,” he says. “Well, the bar. Not the gym. Work,” he rambles a little awkwardly. 

It’s charming, she thinks, in a way that only works for him. Cute, even. 

It occurs to her that she’s still holding his arm and she relaxes her hold, but before she can let go, he turns his hand so it catches hers. His fingers curl between hers and he smiles at her before he leans down and kisses her. 

She could get used to waking up like this. 

Instead she says, “So you decided to burn my kitchen down before you left?” 

He cringes. “I was trying to make you coffee, but I couldn’t figure out how to work your ridiculously complicated machine.” He pauses then adds. “I, uh, might have broken it. I can buy you another one.”

“Thor, I’ve never used that thing in my life,” she says, too tired to even think about fighting back laughter. “I stole it from my ex when I moved out,” she explains before she leans up and kisses his very amused lips. “I’ll make us some real coffee. Bread is in the pantry, if you think you can manage not to break my toaster.”

“Very funny.”

  
  


He stays for another hour before they both agree they really should get ready for their work day. 

When she walks him to the door, he pulls a piece of paper out of his pocket. “My number,” he says as if it needs explaining. “If you want to call me.”

Brunnhilde wonders how long he’s walked around with that in his pocket, waiting to give it to her. How dramatic, she thinks as she takes it. “Maybe I will.” 

Thor grins and kisses her one last time. “Bye, Valkyrie.”

“Bye, god-man.” 

When the door closes behind him, she decides she’ll text him that evening, after she gets home from the gym. It’s quick, she knows, probably quicker than she should even consider moving. But frankly she doesn’t give a damn. 

She knows Thor won’t. 

  
  


She’s in the middle of taking apart and throwing the (now completely broken) espresso machine in the trash when there’s a knock at her door. She rolls her eyes and calls out, “It’s open, Thor.” He must have forgotten his phone or something. 

“Thor, huh? Is that what we’re calling tall, blonde, and pretty?” 

Her head shoots up to find Carol, giving her a very smug grin, holding up Brunnhilde’s keys. They both stand there for what feels like eternity – her willing her mouth to catch up to one of the million thoughts running through her head, Carol very clearly biting back laughter – before Brunnhilde finally pulls herself together and shrugs. 

“That depends,” she says, finally deciding it isn’t worth dismantling the espresso machine just to save space, and tosses the whole thing in her trash. 

Carol raises a brow but doesn’t say anything about it, probably even more glad than her to see the stupid thing finally gone. “On?” she asks instead, probably deciding she’s more interested in Thor gossip than relics of her past relationship. 

“The fifty bucks you owe me.”

“Pretty sure the bet was that you would go home with horrible tinder girl, which you clearly didn’t. So, actually, I think you owe me fifty dollars.” Carol says as she picks up the folded piece of paper off the counter. “You got his number? How cute.” 

She snatches the paper out of her hands. “Nice try. But the bet was whether or not I would need to get my keys back from you. Which I didn’t.” 

“Because you were _supposed_ to go home with horrible tinder girl.”

“What does it matter?” Brunnhilde says, rolling her eyes. “I had a one night stand. I win.”

Carol rolls her eyes right back. “You didn’t though.”

“You _just_ caught him leaving my place.” 

“Actually, I caught you guys making out on the fire escape last night,” Carol says because _of course_ she did. She doesn’t give Brunnhilde a chance to argue it either, her mind already made. “And I don’t know if you know this, Brunnhilde, but in order for it to qualify as a one night stand, it has to actually be _one_ night. So let’s be real here: you found a _boyfriend_.”

Brunnhilde stares at her for a solid minute.

Then another.

Carol looks like she’s going to laugh by the time Brunnhilde’s brain catches up and she realizes she should deny it. 

“You don’t know that,” she says instead. Because, technically, Carol doesn’t. Because, _technically_ , Thor isn’t her boyfriend. “Also, don’t say boyfriend. I’m not sixteen.” 

“Fine. You found a gender non-specific companion. Better?” 

“Hilarious.” 

Carol smirks. “Tell you what: I’ll pay up if you can go one week without seeing pretty boy.”

Okay, that’s easy. 

She can do that. 

Right?

  
  


That first day is easy enough because as soon as Carol leaves, Brunnhilde gets ready for the gym. Then, truth be told, by the time she gets off work, she’s too exhausted to do anything but go to sleep. Besides, there wouldn’t even be a point in contacting him now because she already knows he’ll be at work. 

Except because she passes out early, she wakes up almost two hours earlier than normal, which is honestly the worst thing that can happen when you’re trying to make your days go faster, not last longer. And not just the groggy, _guess it’s time to get up now_ awake. No, she’s up and _could probably go for a run_ awake. 

There’s no going back to sleep for her.

She cleans her apartment out of pure boredom and because that can always make the time pass. Tosses out old takeout still in her fridge, scrubs her shower, even does some laundry. Well, at least she starts to. Because in the middle of stripping her sheets – the last thing she has left before getting ready for work – something heavy and shiny and distinctly gold comes flying out from under one of her pillows. 

Thor’s chain. 

She’d completely forgotten about it the moment she got out of bed, too distracted by what was outside her room. It looks stupidly expensive too. Probably something he got when he was still a rich boy. Definitely the kind of thing anyone would want back immediately, not whenever convenient. Personally, she’d definitely be pissed as fuck if someone knowingly held onto something like this for a whole week. 

Especially since, technically, he doesn’t have a way to contact her. 

He’s probably hoping she’ll call and let him know she found it. 

She pulls the paper with Thor’s number out from where she hid it in her dresser and punches his number into her phone. Her fingers stop the moment she tries to type out a text though, and she stares at the blank message.

 _Fuck it_ , she thinks and closes her phone. 

  
  


“We’re closed,” he calls, not even bothering to look up counting bottles or stocking ice or whatever it is he’s doing when she walks in. 

She raises a brow. “Then why is the door unlocked? That doesn’t seem very safe, god-man.” Not that she has much room to talk about leaving things unlocked, but she’s not about to bring that up. 

Thor’s head snaps up and he stares at her with wide eyes for a moment before he grins, so big and ridiculous that she can’t help but smile back. She’d missed his smile, she thinks before she can stop herself. It’s a horrible and cheesy thought, and normally she would be mad about it, but she really can’t be bothered right now. 

“Valkyrie,” he says, immediately dropping whatever it was he was doing and coming out from behind the bar. “I wasn’t expecting you.” 

“My gym’s a couple of blocks from here,” she explains. Which, technically, is true. Just a couple of blocks in the opposite direction. “I need to be there soon. But I thought I’d you’d want this back,” she says and pulls his chain out from her hoodie’s pocket. 

He takes it from her, his fingers linger over her hand for two beats too long. “Thanks,” he says. “I was all the way back to my place before I realized.” There’s something about the way he says it almost too casually, as if it were rehearsed. 

She looks at him for a minute, the realization slowly sinking in. “Thor, did you _intentionally_ leave that behind?” 

He grins sheepishly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says in a way that makes it clear he knows _exactly_ what she’s talking about. 

Brunnhilde rolls her eyes but laughs. “You gave me your number,” she reminds him. “I would have called.” In a week. Right after she collected her money from Carol. 

“Yeah, but if I left that under your pillow before I did that. Hypothetically, of course,” he explains. “Besides,” he says, his fingers taking her hand. “It worked, didn’t it?”

It did, she means to say. But then he gives her this look and she decides talking is overrated. 

Except then the alarm on her watch buzzes before she has the chance to kiss him, reminding her that she’s supposed to be at the gym already, and she almost groans. It would almost be amusing if it wasn’t so annoying how much the universe works against her. 

She forces herself to take a step back, not trusting herself to be too close to him. “I have to teach a class in fifteen minutes.” Six blocks south of here. “I better get going.”

He frowns, but nods. “That’s fair,” he says, barely able to contain his disappointment. 

“I’ll call you,” she says before she turns and leaves, realizing she may have to actually run to make it on time. 

Except she only makes it about ten feet past the door before he comes out after. “Valkyrie,” he calls, stopping her before she can actually try to (literally) run off. “At the risk of sounding heteronormative, do you want to go out with me? I’m off on Sunday. We could get coffee? Pretty sure I still owe you a cup or twelve after breaking that machine.”

It doesn’t escape her that he picks coffee, not drinks. A distinctly daytime date. Just so he’s clear on where he stands. On what he wants from her. _With_ her. 

Fuck. Carol was right. 

She definitely found a gender non-specific companion. 

“Here’s the thing,” she says, turning back to face him, barely trying and completely failing to hide her grin. She decides right then and there that she no longer cares that she’s going to be late to work. After all, what’s the point in being the boss if you don’t get to break the rules every now and then? “I have this bet with Carol. She said I wouldn’t last a week before going out with you again.” 

He grins back, just as big and bright as she feels, and takes two large steps forward, completely closing the distance between them. “She sounds smart, this friend of yours.” 

“Annoyingly,” she agrees. “So if I’m going to lose this bet, it has to be worth it,” she explains, and reaches up to grab the collar of his shirt. “Make it lunch.” 

“Lunch,” he says, his voice low, his hands on her waist, “Sounds perfect.”

When she reaches up and kisses him, long and hard, she thinks it’s definitely the best fifty bucks she’s ever spent. 

**Author's Note:**

> very basic premise (and title) pulled from cashmere by rita ora.
> 
> happy belated bi visibility week!


End file.
